


The Magpie

by artofcrying



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Hermione Granger, Eventual Sex, Good Fenrir Greyback, Multi, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter), Riddle Era, Slow Burn, The Sacred Twenty-Eight (Harry Potter), Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Trauma, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:00:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27754213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artofcrying/pseuds/artofcrying
Summary: While working on a task force for the Death Eater Trials, Hermione discovers a cursed diary and finds herself in the body of a pureblood woman in the summer of 1945. Riddle Era/Time Travel.
Relationships: Cygnus Black/Druella Rosier Black, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Fenrir Greyback, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Orion Black/Walburga Black
Comments: 27
Kudos: 133





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first HP fic in a long time so I hope y'all enjoy. The story will revolve around Hermione, Draco, and Tom, moving through the past and present. There will be some original characters mentioned, just because of the nature of it being pre-Trio. Look forward to Sacred 28 nonsense, young Hagrid, and not-yet-evil Fenrir Greyback.

**_“As the future ripens in the past,_ **

**_so the past rots in the future --_ **

**_a terrible festival of dead leaves.”_ **

**_― Anna Akhmatova_ **

* * *

Like most mornings, Hermione is up before the sun.

She stretches her arms up above her head, leveraging the tall wooden chair to pop her back. The library at 12 Grimmauld Place had turned into her makeshift home office. It was also where she spent most of her time outside her own office because Hermione had never been one for setting work-life boundaries.

While nursing a cup of coffee she flips through a magigeneologist report. She references it against a vault inventory the goblins never would have given her access to if she hadn't pleaded her case in perfect Gobbledygook and makes the occasional note. Before long she can hear a familiar cooing from down the hall, and puts away her work to head to the nursery. She disarms the enchanted monitor and picks James up from his cot, rocking him as he fusses. Her hand moves to brush back his thick tuft of dark hair as she carries him down to the kitchen. The infant still nestled in her arms, she grabs a bottle to feed him while she thumbs through the Daily Prophet that had been left at the window sill.

A few hours later Ginny and Harry emerge from down the stairs, Ginny's arms lazily wrapped around her husband as if he were escorting down for breakfast. Harry wipes away the sleep from his eyes as he looks between Hermione and James, the latter now peacefully snoozing in a bassinet by the kitchen table. 

“I was wondering where you two troublemakers wandered off to,” Harry smiles softly as he gets started on breakfast, just like every morning.

“Good morning, love birds. Slept in again?” Hermione smiles as she goes to refresh her coffee. Harry mumbles something about eight in the morning hardly being considered sleeping.

“Which cup is that?” Ginny sighs, crouching to stare at her sleeping son.

"Only my second, I promise."

"Yeah right."

"Just let her, I don't want to see how she handles all of this trial research uncaffeinated." Harry lets out a sigh of his own, flipping over a fried egg.

Hermione gives Ginny a smug look as she pours herself a _third_ cup. After the war the Ministry staged a series of trials for the Death Eaters, but ran into complications when considering certain families who may have participated out of duty and obligation rather than loyalty to the Dark Lord. One of the families in question were the Malfoys, who had switched their loyalties by the end of the war. Hermione was the one who had advocated for the trials to mirror those similar to the war crime trials that had occurred in the muggle world over fifty years ago. And as with most things, Hermione was starting to learn, she had also been tasked with the bulk of the actual work (all without having any actual say on the Wizengamot’s rulings).

"You're still working on that?" A familiar voice surprises her, stifling a yawn and still in his aurors robes.

"Yes, Ron. It's the Wizarding World's Nuremberg." She reports proudly, having coined the term after her various meetings with the Minister and Wizengamot (though most referred to it less creatively as Hermione Granger’s Little Project). 

"Nurgen- _what?_ "

"Nevermind." Hermione frowns dismissively, taking a sip of coffee and joining Ginny and Harry at the table. Ginny shoots her a not quite subtle look that she shrugs off. 

“Right. And Malfoy’s still doing his damage control.” Ron snorts, reaching for a piece of bacon before Ginny swats away his hand.

“If by that you mean helping significantly with the research, then yes.” Hermione lets out a little huff, but is met by an audience of apprehensive eyes. “I think we’ve all misunderstood Draco a bit.”

“Misunderstood him?” Ginny raises a brow, buttering her toast. “I don’t think we misunderstood him when he called you—”

“I know.” Hermione interrupts, more sharply than intended. “I _know_. But I owe a lot to Draco, he’s done a lot of work this past year. It doesn’t make up for what he did, but I think it still should count for something.”

Again, she’s met with unimpressed and almost pitying faces. 

“Hermione’s right,” Harry gives her a sympathetic smile. “Even Kingsley seems impressed with Malfoy’s cooperation.”

“Sounds like an excuse to avoid overfilling Azkaban and keep coffers full.” Ron mumbles and she rolls her eyes.

“ _Actually_ , Ronald, the research and work that came about as part of those trials eventually led to legislation that helped to prevent future atrocities. And while I couldn’t gain that much support,” she shoots the male redhead a look, “I have been conducting my own studies into the history of the first two wars and pureblood genealogy. The Ministry might officially make a statement against antiquated blood purity practices.”

“Why the genealogy, though?” Harry questions, and Hermione ignores that Ginny kicks him inconspicuously under the table.

“In order to prevent any future horrors, we must understand what went wrong. What led to _two_ Dark Wizards being able to take hold in less than a century, what ideas and fears were they able to capitalize on?”

“They were just bloody bigots.” Ron laughs through a full mouth.

“I think,” Harry begins, cutting Hermione off before she can recite another one of her carefully prepared talking points, “This is too much for breakfast.”

Baby James lets out a small cry as if to agree.

* * *

With a pop Hermione apparates into Diagon Alley outside of Gringotts. A tall figure dressed in black stands by the marble pillar, looking just as imposing, and waiting for her. She can’t help but smile when she sees him. He returns the smile tightly, a warm greeting when coming from Draco Malfoy.

The two venture into the vaults, their goblin escort leaving them once they arrive at their destination. It feels strange for Hermione to stand outside of this vault in particular, especially when the first time she visited was not quite as Ministry sanctioned as her current visit. 

Draco opens the vault and they step inside. He makes a sweep with his wand, though the aurors who had gone in before them had already disarmed all protective wards. Hermione watches as he moves carefully, like a soldier.

“Do you feel alright?” She asks, handing him a clipboard with a copy of what she had been working on earlier that morning. She hopes he doesn’t notice how fresh the ink is. “Digging through these things, I mean.”

“It is a bit strange, going through Auntie Bella’s vault.” Draco answers after a while, his eyes lingering on the parchment. (Even if he says ‘ _Auntie Bella’_ in a mocking tone, the words still catch her off guard.) “But if one were to ask the Goblins they would claim most of the belongings in the vault anyway.”

“Someone is read up on Goblin metalsmithing culture.” Hermione hums appreciatively.

“Oh, my mistake, Granger. Did you send that forty page report on Goblin cultural sensitivity for decoration?” Draco scoffs, but she can see the smile on his face even with his head turned.

They get to work double checking the inventory list, and searching for flagged items of archival interest. Draco stays to one side of the vault while Hermione works on another. An easy silence falls over the vault, broken only by the occasional clanking of gold or silver. 

“Granger,” Draco calls out, his voice slightly echoing. He walks toward her as she raises her head. “I don’t recognise this name, it was catalogued as the diary of M. Lestrange, circa 1940s. A suspected enchanted object, completely blank.”

“Oh?” Hermione rises to her feet, remembering seeing the diary in the list this morning. “A classmate of Tom Riddle?”

“Possibly.” Draco murmurs, his blonde brow furrowed in concentration. He carefully opens the diary for her to see. The text within the diary disappears as Draco flips through it and she lets out an intrigued gasp. “It’s a privacy charm. No one else has been able to read it.”

“I’ll try to figure out if I can lift the charm, it might be worth looking into it as a first hand account.” Hermione takes the diary from Draco, gingerly wrapping it in paper before placing it in a bag to take with her. She glances at her watch as she zips up her bag and her eyebrows shoot up in shock. “Do you want to grab some lunch? I didn’t realize how long we’ve been down here.”

Draco pauses. “With you?”

“Sorry,” Hermione fumbles, her cheeks pink. “Maybe that’s a bad idea.”

“No, no, it’s not.” He corrects her with almost the same clumsiness. “I was just clarifying you weren’t asking me to fetch you something.”

Hermione can’t help the laugh that tumbles through her lips, filling the vault.

“You’re not my secretary, Malfoy.”

“ _I_ know that, I was just making sure _you_ know that.” He adjusts his suit and they leave the vault, returning the keys to a goblin waiting for them at the lobby.

Hermione and Draco leave the bank together, and she attempts to ignore how strange it feels to walk side by side down the busy street. He recommends a simple restaurant off the side of Diagon and Hermione, too hungry to make much of a fuss, easily agrees. She isn’t sure what she expected, but the restaurant is surprisingly humble. They are seated and order quickly, lunch rush long over, and receive their food at the same pace. 

He makes a comment about her looking too shocked the food is good, and she lets out an uneasy laugh. She again lets the quiet develop between, finding the comfortable silence with Draco one of her favorite things about him. If she had to pick something, at least.

“How is your mother feeling?” Hermione asks after a while, the subject weighing in the back of her mind. He doesn’t seem caught off guard by the question.

“She seldom leaves bed. Doesn’t eat, except for gin and calming draughts.” His fork scrapes against the plate in front of him. He raises his chin only when their server comes to clear the table. Draco orders some early afternoon wine for them and Hermione can’t find it in her to protest (it will be that kind of lunch). “How are your parents?”

She shrugs.

“Well, you’ve heard, I’m sure, but I wasn’t able to reverse the memory charm. I spent some time in Australia trying to figure something out, but nothing was safe enough to actually attempt.” She takes a sip of the wine glass after it’s handed to her. “They seem to be doing well.”

“And how are you doing?” He asks, silver eyes softer than she expected. His gaze reflects back the same exhaustion and sadness she’s sure are within her own.

“I’m surviving,” she finds a smile. “This project helps. Finding answers helps.”

She watches the way his fingers cradle the glass stem, absently swirling the blood red liquid within.

“And when you can't find all the answers?” His look takes away her breath, she takes a long sip of her drink to steady herself.

“I won’t, I know that.” Another uneasy sip. “I just…”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that.” He raises his glass to his lips with an inborn elegance she could never understand. His fingers are so slender, so pale. “You’re a good person, Granger. I wonder if you are looking for light in places it doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not naive, _Malfoy_. But I know that one isn’t born to hate. There is always light.” She sets her own eyes on him, wondering if she could ever muster the same intensity. “I know this because I know you.”

“You don’t know me.” He sighs, raking his fingers through white hair. “I just don’t want my father to rot in Azkaban, or my mother to wither away waiting for him. Don’t mistake that for… kindness.”

She watches him, bites her tongue. Anger and embarrassment rise to her throat. 

“I’ll mistake it for whatever I want.”

* * *

Hermione returns to Grimmauld Place with a headache blooming at her temples and an uneasiness at the pit of her stomach. Ginny seems shocked to see her as she dusts the floo powder from her dress. 

“Oh, you’re back early.” Harry greets her with a similar surprise. Her eyes narrow at the strange atmosphere culminating in the room. 

“Malfoy and I decided to take the rest of the day off.” Hermione responds, not missing the way Ginny mouths ‘ _Malfoy’_ at Harry.

“Well, that’s uh, good.” Harry responds awkwardly, sitting down on a loveseat. “Ginny and I wanted to talk to you, if you had a minute.”

She studies both of their faces, searching for hints, trying to decide if she needs to brace herself.

“Okay.” She sits down cautiously, placing her bag beside her feet. “Why are you two acting weird?”

“We’re not.” Ginny tries to wave her off, but the uneasiness in her voice somehow isn’t convincing enough. “We have good news.”

“Ginny is pregnant, we’re having another baby.”

“Oh.” Hermione sits up, her eyes lighting up in realization as she glances between them. “Ginny, Harry, that’s wonderful! Another baby!” 

“Yes, thank you,” a smile as Harry rubs the back of his neck. 

“Hermione, um, we wonder if…” The mood shifts again as Ginny struggles to find the right words. “Now that we’re going to have two children, we wonder if you might consider moving out.”

“Not right away, of course.” Harry interjects, but Hermione is still too shocked to fully react.

“Move out?” She finds herself with a nasty case of whiplash, having gone so quickly from doubt to joy to whatever this new feeling is. Rejection, maybe? “I don’t understand, don’t you want the extra help around the house? Especially now that you’ll have _two_? James is still so young…”

“You’re not a house elf, Hermione.” Ginny tells her gently, but the words still sting. “You’re our friend, we don’t want you to have to feel like you have to take care of the children and the house. Harry and I think it would be better for you to find your own place, so you don’t have to walk around on eggshells, especially with Ron here.”

“Ron is staying?” She can’t help the hurt cracking in her voice.

“We just want you to be happy, Mione.” Harry attempts to reach for her, and she accepts his gentle hand, but she can’t shake the aching feeling in her chest. 

“I am happy,” she replies softly, but she knows it isn’t convincing.

We.

The word dances around in her head, even after the reassuring hugs and gentle platitudes. Even as she sits alone in her room.

_We._

Hermione notices the emptiness more than ever when she's alone. She is not a _we_ , not anymore. Not the way Ginny and Harry are, not the way she and Ron used to be. She loved Ron in her own way. He was her everything, her reward for years of hardship and pain. The answer to the family she lost (and in ways she felt she never had), someone to truly understand each part of her, both ordinary and extraordinary. 

But he wasn't that.

And now she's alone.

Hermione gets ready for bed, carefully braiding her hair into one neat plait. She decides to further punish herself by thinking about her argument with Draco. Maybe she expected too much out of him, maybe she really was being naive.

They may have been spending more time together, but they weren’t friends. Not really. They were coworkers. Acquaintances. 

Sometimes they shared small talk, but it was her mistake to dig. To presume. 

Hermione lets out a self-deprecating sigh, reaching into her bag and pulling out the diary. She unwraps the paper protecting the fragile leather binding. She gently opens the cover, a gasp leaving her lips. Whatever charm that kept them from reading earlier didn’t appear to now keep _her_ from seeing the elegant scrawl.

_Property of Marion Hephaestia Lestrange._

Her fingers delicately flip through the diary, Hermione barely remembering to breathe as she soaks in the words. Just as she and Draco had suspected, M. Lestrange was at Hogwarts at the same time as Tom Riddle. She tries to find his name, any hints of him, but there is barely anything. The first entry appears to occur around her sixteenth birthday, when she first received the diary, and learned of a disappointing betrothal. Through the young woman’s writing she can see some of Draco’s poorly veiled chagrin at his own betrothal to the youngest Greengrass daughter. How odd it all seems to Hermione, how difficult to understand a concept so at odds with her own upbringing (unless she considers the social dynamics within her well-loved and worn Jane Austen novels).

Hermione finds mention of Tom Riddle only as it relates to Marion's brother, a member of Riddle’s close circle of Slytherins. She nearly drops the diary as she discovers an entry describing the opening of the chamber of secrets and the subsequent death of Myrtle Warren. The young woman doesn’t appear to make a connection between the mysterious injuries (Hermione shivers as she remembers her own experience as a child) and the death. Marion, and the students at Hogwarts, were led to believe that Myrtle had taken her own life, as a result of anguish at her own heritage and the bullying she experienced. 

Hermione takes a moment to consider the way the death is written, realizing that Marion does not refer to Myrtle as a mudblood (though it is mentioned that her brother does, often). The young woman even seems sympathetic to Myrtle, and muses in another diary entry that any pureblood family would be happy to be defined exclusively by their blood status the same way they seem incapable of separating anyone else from theirs. 

_“Certainly the Black family would enjoy, most of all, to be known by nothing other than their purity.”_

The thought makes Hermione laugh, especially when she considers the abrasive and bitter portrait subject covered by an enchanted curtain downstairs, refusing to be removed from her home. Hermione reads further and realizes that Marion’s betrothed is Orion Black, which would mean that they never marry. They couldn’t have married, not when Orion was famously involved in the scandalous union with his own (not even distant) cousin Walburga. 

With this revelation Hermione skips through the pages until finding mention that Marion broke off her engagement, and left her family. There is no further explanation, nothing satisfying at least. The next diary entry is nearly six months later, and Marion describes traveling in Europe, partially living among muggles, aiding with the survivors of both wars, simultaneously ravaging the continent.

Hermione lets out a sharp breath. The last entry is the summer of 1945. Hitler is dead. Marion mentions seeing her brother’s friend Tom Riddle a week before on a train in Albania, but says that she pretended as if she didn’t see him. Marion mentions that neither could explain their whereabouts in a satisfactory manner, and so she avoided the conversation altogether. 

Hermione closes the diary, her heart beating with an inexplicable urgency. There is no hint as to what occurred to M. Lestrange, only that she anticipates meeting with F.G. in two days time. She wrote that she will discover what he has learned, but feels it is best to not tell him what she herself has learned within the mountains.

Despite the way they left earlier, Hermione finds herself needing to write to Draco and tell him what she found. For reasons unknown, she was able to bypass the charm, and read the diary of M. Lestrange. 

She holds her quill tip in thought for a moment too long, a splotch of ink developing. At the last minute she decides to apologize for her behavior at lunch, and that she wants to meet with him as soon as possible to talk about what she found. 

She glances at the diary again, as if verifying that could still read it. A train ticket slips from the pages, but she’s already spent more than she intended picking apart the entries within. Hermione reaches over to flick off her reading lamp, curling back into bed, the diary at her side.

* * *

Hermione wakes to the sun streaming into her room and a dull pain at her side. She lifts up her pajama and realizes with a startle that she is wearing a strange nightgown, and that even stranger than that there is a large and angry bruise across her ribs. She sits up straight, knowing now that there had been too much natural light to be in her own drafty room in Grimmauld. 

She is not in her room. She is not in her clothes.

The diary is still in her hand, but the leather does not appear to show several decades of wear and tear. 

Hermione cautiously moves from the bed, searching the unfamiliar room for any sign of threat. The room is still, quiet but for the sound of birdsong out of the window. She looks out of the window, the writing on the storefront outside causing her heart to drop into her stomach. Hermione backs away in display, catching her reflection in the vanity as she moves. Well, _someone’s_ reflection, not her own. Hermione freezes, bringing her hands to her face, and watching as the girl staring back at her does the same. 

Hermione goes downstairs, not giving much thought to her appearance, or that she’s forgotten shoes. She searches frantically for a newspaper, and confirms her suspicion when she is met with what can only assume is the Albanian language. Her eyes sweep desperately to the top of the paper, and she feels as if she could throw her heart up.

25 July, 1945.

The day after the last diary entry.


	2. ii.

_ "There is not one big cosmic meaning for all; there is only the meaning we each give to our life, an individual meaning, an individual plot, like an individual novel, a book for each person." _

_ — Anaïs Nin _

* * *

Hermione Granger has more time travel experience than the average witch. 

But travelling hours back in time is not the same as travelling decades. And using a time turner is not the same as suddenly inhabiting a new body. So while her experience and knowledge might mean she should feel perfectly equipped to handle the situation at hand, Hermione instead finds herself dissolving into panic.

After finding the newspaper Hermione realized she had wandered downstairs barefoot in a nightgown, and ran up to the room to rifle through Marion’s closet. Once dressed, she allowed herself a series of calming breaths, before again spiralling.

1945.

Fifty-five years in the past. She hasn’t been born—Hermione Granger doesn’t exist. Her  _ parents  _ haven’t even been born. And yet here she is, in a body not her own. In a time not her own. 

“Come on, Granger. Stiff upper lip.” She splashes cold water into her unfamiliar face, a last ditch effort to wake herself from the bizarre dream. Her hands rake back thick dark hair, and she turns away, not yet able to stomach the woman in the mirror.

_ Stiff upper lip _ , she murmurs to herself again, pacing the quaint hotel room. She rattles off everything she remembers about time travel, searches into her mind’s library to refresh herself on the theories and basic principles. She knows the one rule, that she must follow above all: Do not alter the timeline. 

But she has no idea what the timeline looks like for Marion Lestrange, beyond what she’s read of the diary. Time travel of this magnitude alone shouldn’t be possible, but souls switching bodies? Hermione has never heard of such a thing.

What happened to Marion after her last entry? Had she died?

Or had their souls truly switched, and she was standing in Grimmauld Place in the year 2000 feeling just as confused?

Hermione studied the diary, but she has no idea what will happen to this young woman after today. All that she knows is that she must meet F.G. tomorrow. And in between that… 

"Wand, wand…  _ accio  _ wand!"

The wand snaps into her palm, stinging soft flesh with the sudden force. Hermione can feel a conflict within the wand, as it recognizes the body but not the soul. There’s a brief resistance before, finally, it acquiesces. 

Her grip adjusts and she studies the wand, confident it won’t set her hand on fire. It’s a little bit longer than her own. A beautiful aspen wood, so white it looks like carved ivory. Probably a dragon heart’s string core, based on the ease at which it became accustomed to her. Well suited.

She tries a few spells to get accustomed to the wand. There are a few hiccups and glitches, but eventually both she and the wand gain a comfort with one another. 

Hermione continues to go through the hotel room, searching through Marion’s belongings. It feels like a strange, definite invasion of privacy, but she knows her own safety is at stake. Anything she can find, any piece of her that could give some kind of  _ clue _ what the hell has happened, would be welcome. She’s pleased to find books within the belongings, scattered across the desk and among her clothes. 

She picks up a book, runs her fingers across the binding. The scent is somehow the same, that old and worn fragrance. Another book, and another. It’s a familiarity within the decidedly unfamiliar. 

Most of the books are on runes, one on Illyrian civilization. A muggle guidebook glossy and new. A Greek to English dictionary. And a book on table manners?

Her brows furrow, flipping through the pages. Why would she have this? It doesn’t make sense—Hermione reaches for the wand and waves it across the cover to reveal an old tome on dark defensive spells. (That makes more sense.) She flips through it more intentionally, not recognizing a few of the curses and charms within.

The sun has drifted into the west by the time Hermione sets the last book down. She’s been nursing a glass of traditional Albanian liquor for most of the day, having finessed a bottle from downstairs. 

Another burning gulp and she returns to the diary. Her eyes sweep across the room, torn apart, a flurry of newspapers and what remains of Marion Lestrange. She commits each word to memory, nothing too small, too insignificant. She rehearses her words out loud, tries to understand her command of language, imagines how she speaks. She can almost feel Marion in the room with her by the time the sky begins to darken. But she is frustratingly evasive in later entries, almost seemingly as the direness of her situation increases. 

Hermione groans, brushing hair from her eyes, and tries not to dwell on the difference in color and texture in her fingers (or how these fingers do not look like her own, are missing her blue glitter nail varnish, are missing the tiny scars acquired through a childhood of war). She is less interested in a sixteen year old’s life or the intricacies of pureblood engagement, and much more interested in who she can trust. 

(Or who she should be afraid of.)

She jumps when there's a knock on her door and she answers after a beat, wand hidden but ready. In front of her stands a bellhop, couldn’t be much older than she herself is. 

"A note for you, Mrs. Olivier." 

Hermione stifles a laugh as she takes the note. He doesn’t seem to understand the humor, and leaves after reminding her of their turn down services.

_ Don't forget our date tomorrow - Mr. Olivier _

* * *

Hermione brings a cup of tea to her lips, her hands no longer trembling. This is her second cup of tea, second (or more) attempt to calm herself down this morning. She still hopes it’s an elaborate dream, but all the while reality is creeping in. 

(She is sitting in the restaurant of an inn, somewhere in Albania. In the year 1945.)

It’s easy for her mind to wander, to spiral into a mess of what-ifs, paranoias, and speculations. Another sip of tea. 

Will she be trapped in this time, in this body, forever? Will she ever see her friends again? What about her parents, whose faces fade in her memory more and more each day? What about Draco, left alone to deal with the mountains of paperwork, artifacts, and research? Draco, the last person she wrote to, the last person she thought of, before slipping away into this new world. What would happen to his family? Would he marry Astoria?

And there’s Harry and Ginny… Would she ever meet their new baby? 

* * *

She is not dreaming. She is here.

This is real.

(In the morning Hermione took the train and sought out the local magical village. She found the library in ruins, an unfortunate casualty of a bomb. The muggles likely didn’t even know a building stood structured there. She supposes no one plans for mortars and grenades when crafting wards. 

She walked through the aftermath of two wars, an unexpected horror. Albania, which she had only ever thought of in relation to a diadem hidden somewhere in a tree, faced particular ruin. The community struggled still to reconstruct itself after first the Nazi occupation, and then the upheaval of the communist revolution.)

Hermione shakes the memories of the morning from her head, again attempting to compose herself. The tremor returns, ever so slightly, tea ripples as it’s brought to her lips.  _ Stiff upper lip, _ she reminds herself, keeping an eye on the door. She studies each figure that walks through, wondering if they could be the F.G. written about in the diary with a stunning lack of detail. There’s the occasional mention across the entries, but always vague, and incredibly unhelpful.

The bell above the door chimes and a man walks in, looking almost modern with his slicked back hair and horn-rimmed sunglasses. There are tattoos visible on his hand and up his forearms as he lifts a cigarette to his mouth. 

He appears to catch sight of her, walking at an unhurried pace toward her table. A smirk teases at his lips.

"Been waiting long, love?" He speaks through a puff of smoke and terror sets in, cutting deep into her bone. There is more man than beast in the cadence but she could never forget that voice.

F.G.

Fenrir Greyback. 

He sits across from her, sunglasses push back so that she can see his eyes—not yet deprived of humanity. Hermione wants to speak, to scream, to say anything, but nothing comes out. The concern in his features causes uncomfortable knots to form in her stomach, an acid taste in the back of her throat.

"What’s wrong, love?" Again, love. He asks so softly, but Hermione can't believe the monster that haunted her nightmares is here. In front of her. Calling her love, honey and care dripping in his eyes. “Flashbacks, again?”

Her head raises, but she can’t look at him. 

Even if he's not a monster, not yet.

"I'm fine, I just need fresh air," she manages shakily, standing up from her chair and walking a little too brusquely to the door. He follows behind, standing at a cautious distance. She could kill him, she thinks. She wants so badly, as she watches him appear so defenseless. Just a man, how easily she could prevent so much pain and suffering if she just…

No, she can’t.

Marion  _ knows  _ him, works with him, what if whatever turns him into a monster never has a chance to happen? (What if she could save Remus, Bill, Lavender?)

"You're scaring me," Fenrir speaks again and Hermione takes a deep breath. She lets out a humorless laugh. 

_ The feeling is mutual. _

"I'm fine," Hermione repeats, and almost means it. "What did you find?" she follows, genuine interest on her brow, remembering the diary entry.

"I found her, she’s real. The old hag that lives in the mountains, the one with a cure." A hope in his voice that is still chilling. "It's a village up north, outside of Kruja, I got a lead from a merchant I met while docked in Corfu."

"A cure?" She can't believe it, wonders if this is somehow why she's here, to make sure Fenrir finds that cure—to stop whatever it is that prevents him from doing so, and becoming a murderer.

"We gotta get the next shipment to Bones, but I should be able to find her before the moon."

Bones? The name causes her to pause. There wasn't a Bones mentioned in the diary. She listens as Fenrir describes their next course of action, relieved when he doesn’t ask any questions of her. The fear subsides and all she can do, in classic Hermione nature, is plan her next move.

Fenrir tells her they will wait until nightfall to apparate to the docks, before giving her an unreadable look and disappearing with a pop.

She slumps against the wall, breathing ragged.

* * *

She spends the time apart gaining her bearings and exploring the small village. She makes her way using the polyglot charm, perusing the shops and markets. Again she sees the remnants of the war and subsequent liberation. Bullet holes freshly painted over, propaganda in shop windows, boarded windows.

As long as she can avoid her own reflection it almost appears like a normal day, as if she has simply been sent by the Ministry to investigate a lead. She can almost convince herself there isn’t anything strange at all, that’s it just business as usual. 

That is until night does fall, and she meets Fenrir Greyback to apparate to a dimly lit dock. A scarf covers her hair, both as a disguise and to protect against the wildly whipping wind. He smiles when he sees her, and she steels herself for it, tells herself that this is not the same monster who sunk his teeth into her friend (and would have done the same to her). 

After retracing mention of F.G. in the diary  _ again _ , she recognizes that no matter what her own feelings and fears are, that Marion lestrange trusts him with her life. Hermione decides she at least needs to pretend she does as well, or at the very minimum stop trembling under his gaze.

She doesn’t realize at first that Fenrir is not alone until the young man beside him clears his throat. He looks barely out of Hogwarts, and a little over eager for a covert operation.

He’s introduced to her as Edgar Bones, who she recognizes as the brother to Amelia and uncle of Susan—his large brown eyes and red hair visible even in the dark. 

“We’ll take this to Venice, then unload and take the rail to Calais, then sail again up to see the Big Guy.” Edgar gestures to the boat, pushing up his shirt sleeves. 

Hermione works with Fenrir to form protection wards around the ship as Edgar levitates large boxes into the cargo hold. She’s surprised when a portkey activates and a small family arrives, huddled together and shivering. Some of the  _ shipment  _ must include refugees, still terrorized by Grindelwald’s supporters even after his defeat (or perhaps escaping from the escape rolling through post-war Europe?). 

Again no questions are asked, and it’s easy enough to follow Fenrir’s lead constructing wards. She even carves runes into the wood of the bow for extra measure.  _ The Big Guy _ is mentioned again, and it becomes apparent the shipment is bound to Hogwarts. To Hagrid. 

She should have gone all along. She wants to see Dumbledore, and tell him everything. 

After finishing their spellwork Edgar salutes them before boarding the ship and disappearing into the fog. Fenrir tells her he’s going to search for the Hag and that she can go on to England like she planned.

She considers his words as she searches the room again, with a new goal in mind, until she finds what she had suspected: locked box (likely containing a portkey). So, that really was the plan. Go back to England. In that moment she decides to spend an extra day, unsure what awaits her back in England. 

\--

Hermione rests on the train, absently flipping through the diary. There has to be some other clue to help her understand. Who is this woman that she counts Fenrir Greyback as a friend, all the while leaving her family behind to secretly fight against Grindelwald’s army? Hermione doesn’t understand, it still pains her to think of leaving her own family behind, knows that even now Draco can’t bring himself to do so.

Her fingers linger over the pages. She wonders if she were to write in the diary if someone from her time would be able to read it. She has no way of knowing, but takes the quill from her bag anyway. 

* * *

After a day wandering the Ionian coast, and then travelling to the ancient ruins of Byllis, Hermione finds herself standing at a station in Vlora. 

Her mind is filled with thoughts of Illyria, wondering how it all fits in with werewolves and refugees. She doesn’t notice him immediately, lulled into a sense of security knowing that Fenrir thinks she left with a portkey that morning. As if he’s the only bogeyman lurking in the shadows of 1945.

As if  _ he _ doesn’t exist.

But he does, and he’s looking right at her. Eyes, a dark shade of blue that remind her of the Ionian sea at night, bore into her, knocking the breath from her chest.

Tom Riddle, holding a small briefcase, stands before her.

(It’s her fault for not remembering. For being so fixated on Illyria and the werewolves and the refugees that she forgot the other detail of the last entry. 

Tom Riddle on a train in Albania.)

Their eyes connect and her grip on the diary tightens instinctively. Something has changed in the air, they both know it, as if the world’s weight has been lifted. Grindelwald has been defeated. (One Dark Lord makes way for another.)

“Miss Lestrange,” he greets her after a moment. She watches the shift in his eyes, in his posture. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

“Yes, you as well.” She gives him a small smile, handing her ticket to an attendant as she steps into the train. He follows behind her, and she mentally goes through what she knows about him. Not much by this point. Tom Riddle has only just graduated from Hogwarts. 

He surprises her by asking to sit beside her. They chat pleasantly, all platitudes and carefully crafted anecdotes about the weather and the sea. His words are undeniably polite and bitingly insincere.

“I believe I saw you a week ago.” He mentions suddenly, causing her brow to raise. So he did see her, it wasn’t just Marion. “You didn’t seem to notice me.”

She had. Of course she had.

“Ah, really?” She answers weakly. An evasive smile. “You should have said something.”

It’s a dare, one that she hopes he won’t take. Tom Riddle saw Marion Lestrange one week ago. 

And then she disappeared.

“Yes, I should have.” He gives her a smile, so perfectly charming Hermione wonders if he practices it in the mirror. “I’m staying at an inn in a small village nearby. Are you in Albania for long?”

“No, I’m leaving soon.” It’s the only thing she’s sure of.

“Would you like to have dinner with me? The inn has a wonderful restaurant.”

Late night escapades with Fenrir Greyback. Dinner with Tom Riddle.

It’s too much.

“I have something to take care of this evening, but I will owl you if something changes.” She listens to the voice overhead, announcing her stop. She tells Tom as much and he nods, that same practiced smile on his features.

On her way back to the hotel it feels as if she is being followed. She can feel the hair raise on the back of her neck, a second pair of footsteps joining her on the pavement. She whips around, wand drawn, and Fenrir stands there.

“You stayed.” He notes, rather obviously. “Not so sure about returning to the dragon’s lair, after all.”

“No, I am sure.” She responds, though she is still feeling quite  _ unsure _ .

Fenrir reaches out to touch her and she can’t help but flinch. He pulls back, his expression filled with anger and hurt.

“What happened to you?” he sighs, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “Why are you looking at me like that? As if I’d ever hurt you?”

Hermione doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything. She hates her stupid bleeding heart, that she feels bad for even Fenrir Greyback.

* * *

It has been a week since Hermione fell into the mysterious deep sleep. 

Draco sits by her hospital bedside, long after Ginny and Harry have gone. No one understands why, or how. Draco came to find her after she didn't respond to his owls, and instead found the residents of 13 Grimmauld on the brink of hysterics. 

He can’t help but wonder if it's his fault, if he had taken more of the burden off her shoulders, if they hadn't argued that night.

With pale fingers he brushes away a curl that has fallen into her face. She looks peaceful, as if she really is just asleep. As if she could wake up any moment.

He misses their conversations. He didn’t know how much he looked forward to having her scoff or snap at him impatiently. He just wants to hear her voice again

"Damn it, Hermione," he sighs, burying his face in his hands.

This is his punishment, he knows. This is what he gets for trying to be good, for trying to fool himself into believing he could be redeemed. A movement catches his eye and he stands up in shock as the body in the hospital bed begins to stir.

"Granger? Granger, are you awake?"

"Abraxas?" There's confusion in her eyes as she stares up at him, and in the pit of his stomach he knows this is not Hermione. "Where am I?"

Before he can answer her eyes have shut again. He shakes her shoulders, more roughly than he’s proud of, but she doesn’t wake again. In his flurry of movements Draco has dropped the diary to the ground, the one Hermione had clutched in her hands as she slept. 

Draco picks it up, and realizes that some of the writing is visible to him. Between the blank pages he sees a familiar scrawl. 

* * *

“What do you mean she’s trapped?” Ginny’s voice is raised, and Draco can only guess what memories are brought up after her own time under the influence of a cursed diary.

“Is it a horcrux?” Harry asks, hand firmly grasping his wife’s.

“I don’t know,” Draco answers honestly. “It doesn’t seem like it.”

He isn’t sure why, but he leaves out the detail of the diary’s owner waking up in her body. It feels important, too important to share, even with Hermione’s friends. At least until he’s figured out what it means.

“Is she safe?” Harry asks after a moment, and Draco shakes his head.

“I don’t know.” He also leaves out the mention of Greyback. Draco can feel the scar on his cheek nearly burn from where it had been sliced by the chandelier, remembering that night with the clarity of reliving it for months through his waking nightmares—can still hear Hermione’s screams. It’s as if the screams never stopped, in his ear like a cruel tinnitus cutting through silence and leaving him without peace. “But it’s Granger.”

Harry and Ginny nod, as if they understand.

She will survive. She will find a way out. He knows she will.


	3. iii.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up way too late writing this and didn't proofread it, plus I'm terrible at writing fight scenes, but enjoy!
> 
> Content warning: mentions of the Holocaust/Shoah and child abuse.
> 
> EDIT: There was a continuity error so some minor changes were made.

_**"Even a man who is pure in heart,** _   
_**And says his prayers by night,** _   
_**May become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms,** _   
_**And the moon is full and bright."** _   
_**— Curt Siodmak** _

* * *

When the world is no longer spinning, her stomach no longer churning, her ears no longer ringing, Hermione raises her head.

She gulps in a breath of fresh air, eyes scanning her surroundings. Country air. 

This is not London, not where Marion had written about her flat. This is Lestrange Manor, in its decay and splendor. A proud and old manor house, with creeping ivy and plush lawns soft beneath her feet as she steps forward. 

Again, panic thrums through her veins, pounding at her chest. 

Her breathing is only slowed by remembering Marion’s own words (her own sad, sad words): she had always been a stranger in her home. Misunderstood, ignored. 

She can see her words reflected in the cold and dark eyes of Magnus Lestrange, Lord of the manor and heir to the name. Magnus Lestrange, Knight of Walpurgis, stands before her at the threshold. He doesn’t ask any questions, appears to simply accept that she has returned after a year. He studies her warily, looking her up and down. (The look reminds her of her own—the way she appraises inventory items, categorizing them and checking their condition.

Perhaps that is all Marion is to her brother. An item belonging to the Lestrange family.)

Hermione glances around the parlour, meeting eyes with various Lestrange family portraits decorating the high walls. Magnus interrupts her gaze, clearing his throat.

“If you’re looking for Mother, she’s been sent to her family in Provence.” He speaks carefully, and she nods, hoping it is the reaction he is looking for. 

She doesn’t forget the diary entry from when Marion was sixteen—her mother had caught her with Abraxas Malfoy at a Yule Ball. As punishment for her innocent teenage flirting Madam Lestrange had locked her in a cabinet and left her to claw her way out, throat raw, fingers bloody, and eyes damp with tears.

“I see.” Hermione responds simply, fidgeting with her fingers until she notices the gesture and stops herself. It won’t do her any good to show vulnerability. (This is a place where weakness cannot thrive.)

  
  
  


“I’m glad you’re home.” He tells her after a long pause, a small crew of house elves having descended on the parlor to serve tea. Hermione swallows back the discomfort as she graciously (but not too graciously) accepts the cup handed to her by thin and trembling fingers.

“Are you?” Her eyes are narrow as she sips at her tea. Marion left without telling anyone, disappeared for a year. How could Magnus be truly pleased to have her home, without any explanation?

“Is this about the betrothal?” He lets out a low sigh, leaning forward in his seat. “I never cared if you married him. Our family has no need to associate with theirs, much less be joined in union. Haven’t you heard the news?”

Magnus lets out a stilted laugh. She tilts her head in confusion, but how could she  _ not  _ know?

Hermione remembers the disgusted face she pulled when she first learned about Sirius’ parents after an offhand incest joke at dinner. Only now does she consider how little she actually knew. Orion Black will marry his first cousin Walburga, a strange sort of circumstance that Marion Lestrange could be counted as responsible for. A consequence to a series of fallen dominos, all set off by her mysterious decision to break off the engagement and leave to travel Europe. 

A broken engagement between two powerful Sacred Twenty-Eight families. It’s the sort of situation that seemed like an afterthought to Hermione in her own time, but now that she finds herself unwittingly involved,  _ living _ it, she recognizes it for what it is. A scandal.

After tea Magnus leaves her to reacquaint herself with the manor. Hermione is careful not to appear as in awe of the many corridors as she is, with the extravagant decor, gilded ornaments, and luxuriant furniture. Her fingers graze gently against an armchair she is sure is worth more than she makes in a year. 

A house elf guides her up to Marion’s room,  _ her  _ room, and she lingers in the doorway. It feels… cold. Distinctly unlived in. 

Decorated in every shape of pastel, and yet, so dark. Chantilly lace everywhere, and yet everything is so grim. It is almost as if Hermione can feel the loneliness, the unhappiness, seeping through the room. Perhaps it’s the body she inhabits, recognizing the place it once felt so much pain. Her eyes glance at a cabinet to the side, wondering if that is the cabinet Marion had been locked in by her mother. Did she cry herself to sleep into those baby pink charmeuse pillows?

Did she stand at this window, staring longingly out at the sprawling lawn, wondering if there would ever be an escape?

Hermione sucks in an uneasy breath. She can understand a little bit now, standing in this room. Why Marion ran away from home, left it all. What was there to leave? Really?

A room that feels like a prison? A brother who feels like a warden, and worships at the feet of a slithering demagogue?

She can see his reflection in the window, as if his presence lingers through the halls. Tom Riddle. She wonders if their little club met in the parlour, drank tea or perhaps malt whiskey, and slung cruelties at the elves while imagining a world revolving their own self-importance. A group of young men steeped in privilege, and yet filled with so much fear (because isn’t that the root of hate? Fear?). 

The Knights of Walpurgis and their Little Lord. 

Not too long ago she had sat across from the young Lord Voldemort, sipped tea with him on the train. He was pleasant… invited her for dinner. The exchange was polite, casual, as if Hermione weren’t speaking with the reason for her nightmares, for her scares, for the empty seats at Christmas. 

She sinks to her knees at the thought, and suddenly wishes she were anywhere but here.

* * *

There’s a difference between seeing the wreckage in documentaries as a child and  _ this _ —

Hermione stands on the street, chin tilted upward as she stares transfixed at a building. It’s the same building she passes by on the way to her own flat. Except now, the building misses half of its façade, entire walls gone. 

Nothing but brick and dust.

* * *

In contrast to the manor, Marion Lestrange’s flat is nearly empty and devoid of the putrefaction of old money and pureblood sentiment. There is, within the white, empty walls, no Tom Riddle. Only a pile of books, a desk and a chair, and a neat but plainly made bed. 

It is more than simple. Bare.

And yet there is life.

A dog-eared page in a book on the desk. A pair of shoes thrown by the door. Fingerprint smudges on the window overlooking the bustling street below.

She hovers her hand above the smudges, sees a different reflection in the glass. For a flash she can see her own face, Hermione’s face. 

If she’s going to be trapped here… Maybe she could buy a vase.

* * *

It feels weird to see a stranger’s body naked. Hermione avoids the dark eyed gaze in the mirror. There are some familiarities: brown curls, brown eyes. But Marion’s eyes are darker, her hair has a looser curl, soft to the touch. Out of curiosity Hermione opens the medicine cabinet door, slick with condensation. 

She isn’t surprised to see only a few beauty potions. But the muggle lipstick and a pack of cigarettes  _ is  _ a surprise. 

“So, she smokes,” Hermione hums to herself. She’ll have to keep that in mind.

A tapping on the window startles her, and she quickly swaps the towel for a robe. She sees a snow owl peeking in, letter in its claw. She opens the window and takes the letter, giving it a light pat before sending the sweet creature on its way.

She unfurls the letter to see an invitation to tea from Druella Black, née Rosier, Marion’s closest friend while at school. 

The thought of tea with Druella is mildly terrifying. Unlike Magnus, who she doubts ever truly knew his sister, if Druella thinks something is off then her cover is blown. But if Druella finds nothing wrong, then the whole of pureblood society opens up to her (even if she doesn’t know quite what to do with it—yet).

* * *

She keeps her head down as she walks to Diagon Alley. 

Most of the shops are the same, others different. The tea house in particular is one Hermione doesn’t recognize, perhaps shuttered in the First Wizarding War. She takes a steadying breath before entering, her eyes scanning the room. She feels underdressed compared to the other witches seated around the tea house, dressed in their finest robes. 

Druella Black, on the other hand, stands out in her own way. Vibrantly blonde and dressed in shimmering silver robes. There’s so much of Narcissa in her features, but there’s a softness. A girlish pinkness in her cheeks.

Her face lights up when she finally notices the guest she’s been expecting. Druella waves her over and Hermione can’t help but notice the large gemstone on her finger. That helps with the timeline.

“Mia!” She calls out, standing slightly to greet her friend. She kisses her on the cheek before gesturing for her to join her at the chair across from her. “How are you, darling? I’ve missed you terribly.”

Hermione purses her lips as she glances at the menu, smiling at Druella’s words. She wastes no time (so far, so good).

“I’ve missed you, too.” She replies softly, finally looking up after giving her order to a server passing by. “Congratulations, by the way. I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. Did you get my owl?”

She bluffs, but Druella appears unfazed, reaching out her pale hand.

“Of course I did!” Her big blue eyes peer at her so intently. Discerningly. But what does she see? “You seem different, Marion.”

“Oh?” She chokes lightly on her tea. 

“I suppose so am I,” she continues without missing a beat, flashing her large ring. “You won’t leave again, will you? You’re back for good?”

Hermione doesn’t know how to answer. There’s an uncomfortable twisting in her stomach at the thought. (Will she be trapped here forever? Doomed to tea parties and acting as a marionette, puppeteered by memories and written accounts, with no real purpose but to preserve the timeline?)

“I don’t know,” she answers honestly. Druella nods, accepting this answer.

“Right, well, you don’t have to answer.” Druella takes a sip of tea, before looking up again with a sad smile. “I’m jealous of you, Marion. I already miss being on my own, though marriage is really just passing from one cage to another.”

“Druella, I—”

“No, don’t say it, darling. You had every right to leave.” Her hand rests softly on her own. “It’s filthy what the family will do to preserve itself, clamoring to prove their purity. As if they could be struck from the List.”

“The List?” Hermione asks, feigning innocence.

“How could you not have heard, darling? It practically tore our social circle apart, ended engagements, blacklisted others… Apparently it was written years before, but the Prophet published it and caused a stir.” Druella clicks her tongue disapprovingly, with a distaste only someone so perfectly advantaged could get away with. “The old fool Cantankerous Nott is responsible, though he won't admit it. As if there are other magigeneologists among us?”

* * *

The tea ends in Druella convincing her to come to a party held at the Malfoy Manor. She goes because she doesn’t know what else to do with herself, even if she’d rather be perusing the time section of the library than standing around in a gown that puts her Yule Ball dress to shame. 

Druella points to a portrait in the hall, giggling over the not-so-secret intermingling with muggle royalty. Hermione ignores it, thankful for the hours she’s spent researching the original Sacred Twenty-Eight families. Most of it seemed like useless gossip, but now as she watches it all unfold in front of her eyes it feels increasingly indispensable. 

Among the crowd is Tom Riddle, seated with his Knights surrounding him. 

“Quite the surprise, isn’t it?” Druella whispers, noticing her line of sight. “But I suppose it shouldn’t, he’s been coming to events on and off. This is his first in months, though.”

Hermione almost mentions Albania, but keeps it quiet. She understands it’s a secret they must both keep. 

(There’s a sick acid taste in her throat at the thought of sharing a secret with Tom Riddle.)

A familiar face, a familiar shock of platinum blonde, causes her heart to jump. She nearly confuses him for Draco, as if he, too, could be trapped here. Or perhaps followed her gallantly to save her? 

Abraxas Malfoy returns her glance, furrowing his brows. She turns her head, realizing she shouldn’t have looked at him for as long as she had. (Not with the history shared between himself and Marion. Not that she could blame her. There’s just something about blonde men in black suits, isn’t there?)

Quickly feeling overwhelmed, Hermione takes a glass of wine and disappears into the gardens. Somehow every party like this is the same, whether it be the stuffy Ministry events or Quidditch after parties Ginny drags her to. Each one is the same. Overdressed and beautiful people, an open bar, and conversations Hermione would really rather not be part of.

She whips around suddenly at the feeling of a hand on her arm.

“Why am I just now finding out that you’re back in London?” 

“Orion.” She breathes out in appropriate shock.

She almost doesn't recognize him, the portraits at Grimmauld don't do him any justice. She wouldn’t recognize him at all if it weren't for the hints of Sirius in his features—she wonders if Sirius knew about the woman who almost married his father, and her heart pangs knowing that she'll never get to ask him.

But like all the other waves of sadness, it ebbs. Hermione returns to the moment, still feeling his hand on her bare skin.

“Where have you been? No, why haven’t you returned any of my owls?” His grip loosens as he steps back, looking her over with narrowed eyes. “You’re looking at me like a stranger.”

“I heard the news.” She pushes away his hand. “I won’t tell you congratulations. Perhaps, I’m sorry?”

“Sorry for what?” His voice is strained, the scent of alcohol dripping from his downturned lips. He lets out a deep, self-deprecating laugh. “You should be, either way. I’m being punished, using the worst weapon imaginable.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” She sighs, the pity slowly reappearing in her eyes. 

“It’s not too late, Marion.”

“No, it is.” She cuts him off, sharper than intended. 

“Oh, am I interrupting something?” She never thought she would be thankful to see Tom Riddle. He stands at the edge of the shadows, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. There’s amusement, and derision in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, Riddle.” Orion scoffs, giving her one last look before bounding back to the party. (She doesn’t miss the flash in the young Dark Lord’s eyes. A familiar, almost feral, flash of indignation.)

For some reason, Tom lingers.

“Why didn’t you marry Orion Black?”

His question catches her off guard. She searches her brain for an answer, but decides to go with the truth. 

“I didn’t want to marry anyone. I had just graduated, I wanted something more.” She can’t help but think of Ron, and her own situation. Could it have been so different for Marion? 

(She can still remember the sense of dread she felt after finding the ring Ron had clumsily hid. A feeling that there had to be something more to life than being Ron Weasley’s wife. That there was still so much to do before even thinking about marriage.

Where did that get her? Kicked out of Grimmauld by Harry and Ginny.)

“I understand.” He gives her a small smile, but she doubts he really could understand. That there could be even a glimpse of humanity in him. She knows this is just a glamour he’s forced to wear until it is no longer easier to catch flies with honey. “Do you want to know a secret?”

“A secret?” She hums thoughtfully, wondering what he could possibly deign her important enough to share. 

“I applied to teach at Hogwarts, but Old Dippy rejected me. Said I was too young.”

She’s heard this story before, but does her best to keep her expression neutral. She reminds herself that he may be a murderer, but he is not yet the Dark Lord. Not in the ways it counts (and his little club of socialites does not count, not yet). 

_ She _ has the advantage. The advantage of knowledge. 

Tom Riddle may be a gifted student of dark arts, but Hermione sacrificed her childhood to defeat him. She knows everything about him.

“So you decided to holiday in Albania,” she supplies dryly. The amused smile teasing at his lips surprises her. 

“I took a page out of your year in exile.”

“Don’t pretend you know me, Tom.” She answers with a little too much bite (must be the wine), but something in his eyes bothers her. She knows everything about him but doesn’t know how to read him, not like this. Not now.

She doesn’t expect the smile to bloom into an all-out smirk. She realizes what she’s done as he speaks. 

“Perhaps not, Miss Lestrange, or should I say  _ Marion _ ?”

“My brother refers to you as Tom, it was a slip of the tongue.” She takes a sip of wine, refusing to look away. “My apologies.”

He watches her without responding, the smirk fallen and something else in his eyes. Hermione feels as if she has made another mistake, but isn’t sure. Again, his expression changes and he shakes his head. 

“I don’t mind, Miss Lestrange. For you I’ll be Tom.”

He holds out his palm in a gesture that's reminiscent of a Bulgarian gentleman, but there isn't any warmth, any youthful adoration. She gingerly gives him her hand and he raises it to his lips, leaving a kiss. His lips are deceptively warm—she expected cold marble, just like the mask he wears. 

“It was a pleasure spending time with you. Have a good evening.”

“You as well,” Hermione answers, still reeling from the shock. “Good night, Mr. Riddle.”

He smirks again. 

“I thought we just agreed. Tom.”

“Goodnight. Tom.”

Just as suddenly as he appeared at her side, Tom is gone, slipped seamlessly back into the shadows. 

* * *

A summer fog covers the night, rolling over the ink black water. It obscures their clandestine movements so perfectly Hermione wonders if it is by design. 

For as many times as Hermione has travelled within the Hogwarts boats, she has never set foot at the underground harbour at the far edge of the grounds. The castle is visible from afar, the crescent moon framed between tower spires. 

Fenrir stands at the edge of the harbor, giving her distance. The sight of the young werewolf doesn’t fill her with terror anymore, if only because she has chosen him as the lesser of many evils. 

“I was beginning to feel unneeded.” She confesses to Fenrir with a tight smile. Without turning to look at her he laughs. She doubts he understands the frustration and self-pity behind her words. She still doesn’t fully understand why she decided to take that portkey, to leave Albania. It feels like she left the only thing that made sense. The promise of adventure, a mystery to unravel, a beast to tame. And for what, to go to parties? To wear pretty dresses and banter with Tom Riddle?

Through the fog two boats emerge.

In one boat she can see four cloaked figures. The other boat, trailing behind, has the crates she helped Edgar enchant. 

Her eyes narrow, wand poised toward the boat. She hears a sound, guttural and low. A growl. Fenrir has also turned his attention to the boats, his wand eminating a bright light, cutting through the fog. 

“Something’s wrong,” he growls out, and she realizes that the fourth figure is slumped over. The other three wear masks, wands pointed toward them. A beam of light streams across the distance and Hermione steps to the side, a curse singeing the air as it barely misses her. 

“It’s a trap,” she breathes out, following Fenrir as she fires off curses. 

“They’re Grindy’s boys.” Fenrir mentions as he jumps to the other side of the dock, curses still streaming from his wand. The cloaked figures apparate to the dock, and Hermione manages to stun one as he advances. The body plunges into the water, angering the other two.

She doesn’t understand why Grindelwald’s followers would ambush them. She doesn’t understand how he still has followers, not after his defeat by Dumbledore only months before.

Oh.

“Dumbledore, they want Dumbledore.” She shouts to Fenrir who only nods. “We have to lead them away from the castle!”

Hermione fires off a quick round of spells, before apparating herself in front of the cloaked man. She gives him an old-fashioned muggle elbow to the throat and subdues him enough to side along apparate back onto the boat. 

“Marion!” Fenrir’s voice booms from across the water, his face illuminated by a quick succession of curses. “Are you out of your bloody mind?”

She struggles to maintain her balance as the man comes toward her, realizing in fury that his wand had been knocked from his hand on the dock. She fires another spell, levitating him from the boat and into the water. In the commotion she doesn’t notice the crates opening. A curse hits her arm, slicing through her trench coat. She looks up in shock as two more figures stand on the boat tethered to her own. She sends a slicing charm at the rope, severing the connection, but they have already began an assault. 

Fenrir is at her side, rocking the already unsteady boat as water splashes up against the sides. A fire curse, not quite as insidious as fiendfyre, but just as damaging, is hurled at the boat. She gives Fenrir a look as the fire begins to spread, setting up a shield between themselves and the two men. A rope is hurled, wielded by a wand, catching her arm. It’s cut, and then another is sent. A bombarda, an explosion. Blocked. Another one. A slicing charm. Blocked. Another one fired, cutting her cheek. 

Fenrir grabs onto her, as if intending to disapparate them away, but he’s hit. His grip loosens, and before she knows it she’s falling. A pained cry leaves her lips as the cold water crashes against her body, or rather her body crashes against it.

Hermione gasps and sputters, spitting out water. Through bleary eyes she sees Fenrir still standing, through flames, still fending off attack. She feels useless, drowning. The lake has become choppy in the unrest, bringing her under its rough waves.

As her head sinks lower, arms and legs weakening by the moment, Hermione wonders if she’ll die here. And perhaps in death she’ll be reunited with her loved ones in the beyond. (The thought of her body, Marion’s body, beneath the lake for decades, sleeping below as an eleven-year-old Hermione passes by overhead…) 

A hand grabs onto her and she’s yanked through the water, ripping through space and distance until landing on solid ground. Hermione coughs, choking up lake water as she lands on her hands and knees. Fenrir is at her side, helping her, pulling her up to stand in due time. She steps back to look at him, soaking wet with blood stained clothing. She doubts she looks any better. 

Her eyes widen as she realizes where they are. Hagrid’s hut.

There’s a light on, and it isn’t long before the door swings open. She’s startled by the man in front of them, as if she somehow felt Hagrid had always looked like a scruffy and bearded old man. Of course she knows that couldn’t be true, but to see her friend as he is now, maybe a foot or two shorter, is to see a stranger. 

“Yer lookin’ like a drowned pup, Greyback.” The soothingly familiar Scottish drawl pulls her back, and she can see big eyes and ruddy cheeks and a cheeky grin. Hagrid. It really is Hagrid.

The part-giant leads them into the hut and puts on a tea kettle. She glances around as the kettle hisses, noticing with a comforting warmth in her chest that nothing seems to have changed over the years. (Except for the stench of alcohol, which she pretends not to notice, even as it permeates the hut. Each empty bottle a stab through her heart.)

“‘Ave to go to the castle, best see Dumbledore ‘bout what ye tellt me.” Hagrid rises with a grunt, barely acknowledging her at all. In fact, Hermione doesn’t notice that he hasn’t spared her anything but a cold glance until he’s left them alone in the hut. She holds a woolen blanket closer to her body, glancing at the fireplace and thinking only of the boat engulfed in flame. 

“You’re not looking at me like a monster anymore.” Fenrir laughs, but there’s more sadness in his voice than he likely intended. She gives him a soft smile, and means it. She feels guilty about feeling scared—this is not the murdering savage of her past (or future). Not yet. She owes him, to who he is now, to treat him with the kindness he deserves. 

“You saved me.” She responds simply, her grip loosening on the blanket. 

“I couldn’t stand you looking at me like that, like everyone else does,” he continues without lifting his head, fidgeting with his cup.

“I’m sorry.” She doesn’t know what else to say.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you’d died. That’s the worst of it.” He says again after a moment, standing. He moves toward her, surprising her. 

“But I didn’t,” she offers softly, smiling up at him. He leans toward her, and she knows what is going to happen. If she were really Marion she would let him, wouldn’t she? But she isn’t, not really. Not in the ways it matters. She turns her head, his lips grazing against her cheek (just like the curse). 

She isn’t prepared for the expression in his eyes, but that’s her own foolishness. For not seeing, for not knowing, for going into this battle unprepared (for not knowing it was a battle at all). She steels herself, hand on her wand.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What are you doing?” Fenrir steps back, anger and confusion in his eyes.

Hermione keeps his gaze, holding up her wand, and says the incantation under her breath:  _ Legilimens. _

She can feel a resistance, but it becomes clear that Fenrir knows nothing about Occlumency. His mind is open to her, if only she dare. She is still clumsy in her skill, not quite a master (she always hoped she would never have to utilize this talent she picked up after the war). But Hermione can’t rely solely on the diary anymore, not as she delves deeper into this new identity. She needs to know more about Marion Lestrange, and Fenrir Greyback seems to be the only one who really understands her. 

Hermione makes the mistake of letting her curiosity guide her, and finds herself in the Amsterdam flat of the Klein family, late in the summer of 1939. She watches from the back as Fenrir’s mother strikes a match, lighting two candles and leaving the match to extinguish itself onto an ashtray. Hermione can taste the wine on his lips, bitter and sweet. It’s a joyful memory, but tinged in sorrow. Mr. Klein takes his son aside and they discuss his plans to return to Hogwarts in the fall.  _ War _ , Mr. Klein tells him, is on the horizon. 

“Then come to England,” Fenrir asks his father, not quite pleading.

“We’ll be safe in Amsterdam.” Mr. Klein shakes his head. “Living among the muggles here, away from Grindelwald’s influence. We’re safe here, my son.”

Hermione stumbles into another memory, a jarring contrast to the peaceful family dinner. Bombs dropping on London, the peel of a siren, barrage balloons overhead like whales floating in the sky. 

Her heart races, ears pounding. No. She can’t do this.

The hull of a ship, the sandy shore, the whirr of a tattoo gun fashioned out of kitchen materials. The hum of a radio reporting the occupation of Holland and the deportation of its Jews. The taste of liquor, the stench of tobacco smoke.  _ Grayback _ , a nickname given with an appreciative and distinctly American drawl. 

She travels further, the memories darkening. She can feel the dread permeating his mind.

The pounding of a heart, a full moon. Terrors and dark woods and searing pain. It feels as if she is being ripped from limb to limb. The transformation. She tears herself from the memory, and searches on. Fenrir leans against the wall of a dim and cold room, his eyes darting between something in the shadows and a group of men. She can feel the weakness overtaking his body, muscles sore and overworked, heart beating faintly. She sees the moon from the window, in its waning. He must have been ambushed after the full moon, when he was at his weakest. 

The men try to move Fenrir and he fights back, managing to knock one down. Another comes up from behind and Fenrir is yanked back, a garrotte around his neck. He’s pushed to the ground, gasping desperately for air as the man pulls. A blinding flash of light cuts through the room and knocks back the man holding the garrotte. The other two men are similarly incapacited. Fenrir weakly rests on his knees, yanking away the cord that had been pressed against his larynx. He lifts his head and there she is: Marion Lestrange. 

To see Marion through Fenrir’s eyes is a strange feeling. Hermione at once feels insecure about her own act, and understands how Fenrir immediately felt that there was something  _ off _ . The Marion from his memories is a force, dressed in a muggle’s trench coat, holding her wand at the ready. 

Hermione presses on, and finds herself in a familiar setting. The boat rocks as Marion pours a glass of firewhiskey. There’s a twinkle in her eye. Hermione can feel the adoration pouring through the memory. She goes through the memories faster now, the picture of Marion’s life between diary entries becoming more clear. She was a fighter, but kind, and funny, and smart. There are still gaps, time spent away from Fenrir, each on their own missions. Hermione discovers the last memory of Marion, set within the hotel room she first woke up in. Her cheeks flush hot and she disentangles herself from Fenrir’s mind. 

He looks up at her, exhausted. “Did you find what you needed?”

“I’m sorry,” She apologizes again, putting down her wand and taking his hand into her own. “I had to know I could trust you.”

“What happened to you, Mia?” He asks again, his voice filled with anguish. 

“I couldn’t even begin to say,” She lets out a little laugh. She leans forward and kisses him back softly, hesitantly. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I’d save you a hundred times over.” He holds her head and deepens the kiss, standing over her, his knee resting beside her leg on the chair. She moves into the kiss, holding onto him and pulling him closer. Maybe because it’s been so long, or because she thinks about someone else, another set of lips. (Someone she might never see again because she’s trapped here, in this body.) 

And this man, this kind and tortured and cursed man, is looking at her as if he’d rip the world in half with his bare hands if only she would ask. And even if the love isn’t for her, she wants it, is hungry for it. 

Fenrir pulls back, eyes glancing at the door. Hagrid comes hobbling in a moment later, and when he enters the hut again they are apart from one another, back in their respective chairs. Nothing changed but wrinkled clothing, heaving chests, and swollen lips—not that Hagrid would notice, Hermione knows that much about her endearingly clueless friend. Even in this time.

“If tha’s all, she should go.” Hagrid announces roughly, catching her off guard.

Fenrir nods and gives his farewell to the young giant. Hermione follows him outside, holding her arms against her chest.

“What was that about?” She asks quietly, as if he could hear her.

“You’re kidding, right?” Fenrir scoffs. “Your brother and his friends bullied him relentlessly in school before getting him kicked out. Suppose he isn’t quite over it.”

“No, I imagine he wouldn't be,” Hermione says quietly, thinking of her giant friend.

* * *

She sits in the Rosier’s manor, which is distinctly French in its design. Hermione looks around, able to view the home with more neutrality. Druella suggested they meet at her family home, fearing Walburga would tear her eyes out for many reasons.

“Many reasons?” Hermione asks, bringing a cup of tea to her lips.

“Well, she blames you not only for her current  _ misfortune  _ but I assume she also blames you for taking away her dear Phil.”

Her brows furrow in confusion.

“Phil? I've never…”

“No, dear, not  _ you _ !” Druella laughs. “Philomena Selwyn, now Malfoy. Walburga's precious friend.” 

Hermione nods, slightly understanding. She's impressed that Druella leaves it as simple gossip before quickly moving on, deciding on a more interesting topic.

“So, tell me, were there any Mediterranean wizards who caught your eye?” She rests her pretty chin in her hands as she leans in, blinking with her big blue eyes.

“No, of course not.” Hermione laughs. Druella looks disappointed so she gives her a wink. “Well, maybe a fisherman or two with a nice arse?”

Dru laughs, pleased. Hermione thinks about Fenrir's leg, and his two strong tattoo covered arms. She shakes away the thought, clearing her throat.

“Marion, is that you?” An unfamiliar voice, followed by an unfamiliar man appears in the room. Judging by Druella’s reaction he must be her brother, but Hermione doesn’t recognize him. 

“Alphonse Rosier, you’re here to steal her away, aren’t you?” Druella pouts, and Hermione looks between the two of them. The young man laughs uncomfortably, keeping his gaze on her. “I suppose you can, as long as you don’t try to court her.”

“Marion, would you mind?” He offers his hand and she reluctantly takes it. “Have you seen what Mother’s done with the garden?”

“No, I haven’t.” She answers honestly, giving him a teasing smile to hide her unease. 

“I mean it, Alphie!” Druella calls out after them, giggling. 

Hermione doesn't know what to expect as she follows him, her hand resting on the crook of his elbow. He is a complete stranger to her. 

“I have something to tell you, something you can’t share with anyone.” He turns to her, serious eyes. The garden is beautiful, but she can only feel the heaviness in her heart. Something tells her that this man is harmless, she can see the earnestness in his face. And perhaps that’s what actually scares her.

“What is it, Alphonse?” 

“It’s about Tom.” Her heart sinks. “He wants to be like Grindelwald. He saw him as a rival, but now he’s gone, there’s nothing in his way.”

She looks at him quietly.

“And why are you telling me?” 

“I know.”

“Know what?” She asks, eyebrow quirked and ready to draw her wand.

“That you aren't like your brother. Or the other women. You care.”

“Care?”

“About more than clothes and gossip.”

“I care about those things, too. I'm not sure what you mean, Alphie.” She regards him carefully.

“You  _ do _ know, Marion. You do know, you're just avoiding the topic.” She watches as he becomes increasingly frustrated, raking his hands through his hair. Her heart hammers against her chest. She can feel her breath shortening.

“We should talk about this another time,” she tells him quietly, but is unsure if they really should.


End file.
